Its really a waste..

I'm sorry I'm here again to whine.
I have lost my creative skills. Whatever little i had.
I re- read my poems again and again. I don't think they are great works. But i have nothing else. I want to view my own work. And i see no improvement from the past to the present. People get better as they grow. I seem to be growing back into immaturity and un-creativity.
Where have i lost it?
or have i stopped feeling?
The Romanticism has died out. All that i see is jaundiced by cynicism.
All i find is that yes life sucks, and there's nothing that you can really do about it.
I see others going through intense feelings, highs and lows, and tangled love lives. And i mock it, find it juvenile.
Wasn't it good to be juvenile and pour out your feelings?
Something decent always turned up with those juvenile feelings and musings.
I used to be a dreamer. A hopeless one. All i did was dream, daydream, imagine and dream. And some more.
I don't do that anymore. And i don't like it, at all.
To dream, to feel, to ponder and brood and think and go through those phases where you just go on weaving dreams and thoughts into an intricate maze so that you're trapped in your own safe haven, shielded from reality- where is all that?
Escapism- thats the best opium.
Second Life does seem a very good idea indeed.
I miss poetry.
I miss words. And how i could find solace in them. In my own words. I didnt have to go looking for others' poison.
I need to go back.